


not tigers, no vaseline

by syrupwit



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, Ghosts, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: An ill-advised hookup turns into a business opportunity.





	not tigers, no vaseline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



> To everyone, but especially to Penknife: I am so sorry.
> 
> Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For real, because I didn't base this on anything.

A familiar chill prickled at the nape of Klaus’s neck, raising the hair just above the still-damp collar of his hotel bathrobe.

Without turning around, he asked, “Should I get potato chips or onion rings?”

“Klaus.” Ben frowned behind his shoulder, reflected in the vending machine glass. “This is a bad idea.”

“You’re right, what was I thinking? Cheese puffs are obviously the way to go.” Klaus made a show of considering his options. “Aw, they don’t have the spicy ones.”

“You still have a choice. You can leave.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a real buzzkill, brother?” Rolling his eyes, Klaus counted out bills and fed them into the vending machine. “I am aware. This _is_ my choice. Just like last time, and all the other times before.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Ben.

“Drama queen,” muttered Klaus, once Ben had vanished in a rush of disapproving air. He retrieved his bag of not-spicy cheese puffs and ripped it open, making a face on first crunch. “Yuck, these are stale.”

 

-

 

Klaus returned to the hotel room, stale cheese puffs and a couple of sodas in tow, to find his hookup showered, changed, and sitting on the bed. He appeared to be navigating an internal crisis.

“Soda?” Klaus offered. “Or, I guess not…”

The guy, Jim or something, tore his eyes away from his own tightly clasped hands. He was a professional type in his mid-fifties, a short, mournful man with thinning hair, an incongruous accent, and a “mild-mannered accountant who is secretly a serial killer” vibe that had struck Klaus as hilarious when they’d met in a club the previous night. There was something weirdly familiar about him, but Klaus hadn’t been able to identify it so far. Probably just had one of those faces.

“I need you to do something for me,” said Jim. His face looked red and puffy, and not just from the excessive quantities of liquor and cocaine he’d imbibed over the past 12 hours.

“Uh,” said Klaus.

Jim indicated a dry-cleaning bag that lay to his side on the bed. “I need you to put this on.”

Klaus approached with hesitation, careful to keep a few feet of space between himself and Jim. He peered at the contents of the bag. It was, amazingly, an outfit. There were a pair of pants with tons of chains and shit -- ooh, real leather! -- and an unfortunate studded vest, and beneath them a once-white crop top, soft and yellowed like old paper.

“There are boots, too,” said Jim.

Of course. “So, you want me to wear underwear with this?”

“It’s not a sex thing.” Jim sniffed. “I just… I need to see if you can do it. If you can really talk to the dead.”

Klaus wracked his brains and winced as he alit on a scrap of memory: himself, drunk and high, bartering embellished tales of his Umbrella Academy exploits for free shots at the bar. It hadn’t worked, but then Jim had stepped next to him, and the rest had been history.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “First off, that’s a service I usually charge for. Second -- don’t get me wrong, this getup is _rockin_ ’, but I’m not immediately clear on how it relates?”

Jim said, “It was what he was wearing. When he -- when he passed.” He gazed at Klaus beseechingly. “Can’t you at least try?”

Klaus looked at him.

“I have more coke,” he added. “And Xanax.”

Klaus could feel the comedown headache starting in his sinuses. Somewhere, Ben was laughing.

“Okay,” he said, and held up a hand. “But I’ll need a few things first.”

 

-

 

“You’re sure this is necessary?” said Jim, as Klaus lit the incense. The shades were drawn, the lights turned down. Enya played softly on a tape deck.

Klaus regarded him with haughty assurance. “I’m a professional, James. Trust in my methods.”

“My full name is Jeremy, actually,” said Jim. He did have one of those faces. He watched Klaus blow out the match and climb onto the bed.

Klaus assumed a cross-legged pose, bare feet tucked under him, and examined the Ouija board he’d made Jim draw on the back of a local petting zoo flyer. He was wearing the outfit. The clothes were a tight fit, even for someone as skinny as Klaus, and the years hadn’t made them more breathable. Klaus was sweating all over.

The boots sat on the nightstand. Klaus had refused to wear them, but agreed to keep them nearby. They were pretty sick, honestly: tall platform boots with lots of buckles and silver skull-themed spurs. If he hadn’t been sure they were haunted, he would plan to steal them. He might steal them anyway to sell, provided Jeremy-Jim wasn’t a serial killer and hadn’t orchestrated this situation as a ruse to eat Klaus’s organs.

“So?” said Jim.

Klaus closed his eyes and took a deep breath of incense-scented air. He straightened his spine from shoulders to hips. He concentrated on Enya’s gentle voice rather than the discomfort of encroaching sobriety. He took another breath, exhaled, opened his eyes --

There was a third man in the room. And he definitely wasn’t Ben.

“Oh, shit,” Klaus breathed.

“What is it?” Jim stared at him, anxious.

“Nothing! Just, uh.” Klaus had locked eyes with the man, who started to advance on him. The vomit down his front answered some questions that had arisen for Klaus regarding the crop top’s particular odor. “Having some spiritual tingles. You know! Spiritual nerves. Happens all the time. You couldn’t spot me a Xanax in advance, could you?”

“Klaus, what do you see?” 

The ghost loomed over Klaus, glowering. He hadn’t needed to come very close for Klaus to recognize his face, given that it was plastered over half the album covers at the local record store. Now he knew where he recognized Jim from.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have once provided rhythm guitar and backup vocals in a successful alternative rock band of the mid-nineties that dissolved due to its iconic lead singer’s untimely overdose, would you?” said Klaus instead of answering Jim’s question. Or at least he thought he’d said all that. He was too busy wigging out to be sure.

“Huh?”

“Screw you, man,” said the ghostly singer. He lunged forward, and suddenly Klaus wasn’t in control of his body.

His last thought before the ghost pushed him out of his own consciousness was: _Ben has got to start being less cryptic with the hints. Like, seriously? How exactly was I supposed to extrapolate that from that?  
_

 

-

 

Klaus awoke to find himself cuddling a crying Jim.

“Hi there,” he said, awkwardly patting him on the back.

“Sorry.” Jim disentangled himself from Klaus. He sat up, rummaged for a tissue on the nightstand, and blew his nose messily while Klaus confirmed that his limbs and organs were all present and intact.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jim continued. “It’s been so long, and I’ve been trying so hard. I missed him so much. But I’m sure you hear this kind of thing all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Klaus, who was still trying to ascertain whether they’d fucked while the ghost was using his body. It didn’t seem like it. He wondered how he’d feel if they had.

“We just talked,” Jim confirmed. “That’s all I needed. You really have a gift, Klaus.”

Hearing this near-stranger say his name like that turned Klaus’s stomach. He needed to get fucked up again as soon as possible. Hooking up with Jim was supposed to have been a distraction that would turn into a funny story, something his future self could trade for attention or more drugs. It wasn't supposed to have made him... feel things. Like guilt. And disgust, at himself, at both of them. And a tiny thing in the pit of his stomach that felt a little like pity, but a lot more like sadness.

“That means so much to me,” Klaus said. “Truly, I’m touched. I’m a busy guy though, got to make my next appointment. Where’s my payment?”

He got up and started stripping without letting Jim answer. His dirty clothes were scattered around the room; he shoved them on mechanically, heedless of smells and stains.

“Er, here you go.” Jim’s expression was somewhere between bewildered and offended as he handed Klaus a set of nested baggies.

“Take care,” said Klaus insincerely.

“Klaus, was there something I--”

The slam of the door behind him brought Klaus shallow satisfaction. He took measured steps halfway down the hall before breaking out into a run. Hopefully Jim wouldn’t notice he had stolen the boots before it was too late.


End file.
